


Where's The Party?

by Pluppelina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hallucinations, M/M, Masturbation, POV Second Person, Post-Reichenbach, mindfuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You fuck in the kitchen, with the radio still going, right there among the dirty dishes in the sink as if the world is going to end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where's The Party?

You fuck in the kitchen, with the radio still going, right there among the dirty dishes in the sink as if the world is going to end. Again.

And in a sense, it is ending. Slowly. One minute at a time. If there is one thing you can trust, it is that the world will never stop ending.

You don’t really remember what he told you and the song on the radio is slow disco music that sounds like it was made for desperately grinding into each other at three am in the middle of a universe that’s only going to expand until it snaps right back in on itself like a rubber band to cause another implosion explosion big bang, start another cycle, as if it’s breathing and right now it’s breathing out and you are carbon oxide from the cigarettes it smoked so you’ll be the very last to go, clogging to the arteries like tar and making the passing of healthy oxygen impossible because it isn’t right or fair that you have to die one day and so you let him fuck you, face down in a week-old bowl of blueberry yoghurt, and you don’t even care that your hair is starting to smell like milk gone bad.

He doesn’t care, either, and he’s whispering things in your ear that would make Tyler Durden green with envy because that’s what he does, always, make people who are great at what they do realize that they’re never going to be the best, and you can’t love him because he has given you orders not to and he can’t love you because he’s immune to that disease but that doesn’t stop you from wanting it and it doesn’t stop him from purging you from it over and over like washing your hands when you have a cold or doing the dishes when you’ve handled raw chicken.

You wish you had done the dishes and that he would stop washing your hands.

You wish he would stop telling you in great detail about what’s going to happen to your body if you don’t stop smoking, that he would stop using it as a metaphor for the end of the universe, that he would stop seducing you with mental images of swimming, drowning polar bears like your leukocytes are drowning, wish that he would stop telling you that you’re beautiful when you fall apart and that he’s going to put you back together tomorrow so that he’ll have the supreme pleasure of watching you break again, but most of all, more than anything, you wish that he would stop being dead and a hallucination that feels too real to be entirely healthy and that you weren’t just a lonely madman masturbating to the scent of what your boss had for breakfast on the morning of his suicide.


End file.
